


home fires

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Kid Fic, alternative universe, coda fic, spec fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-08-19 20:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20215606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: “Fitz to Simmons, I just wanted to tell you that we love you, very much, and we miss you.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “And that we hope to see you very soon. Take your time. We’ll be here.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

He sits on the small wall that delimits the cottage's garden and separates it both from the gravel road that leads to the small town and the open fields. The wall is an old thing, though not as old as the house itself, and is made of red bricks and concrete that are partially covered in dark green moss. It's ruined and its renovation is scheduled for the upcoming summer, the date, written down with a green pen on the Gruffalo calendar that hangs in the kitchen, is only months away. There are ants walking on the wall, up and down and near the edges, carrying seeds and crumbs, headed to their ant hill, and other insects too - ladybugs and potato bugs. Further away, next to the red entrance gate, a translucent spider's web with the spider itself nowhere to be seen.

Behind him, the cottage that isn't really a cottage - as his daughter never fails to remind him or anyone else as a matter of fact. It's funny and always makes him smile, her utter conviction and stubbornness, her voice so matter-of-factly whenever she explains that while the house is in the country, it isn't by any mean small. Any dictionary, but especially the Oxford one that rests on one of the bookshelves in the living room, next to her schoolbooks, a pile of blank and unused notebooks, and a chipped cup filled with pens and pencils, describes a cottage as a small house in the country. Their house isn't small, it's as simple as that, and with its large windows and airy rooms, it looks more like a shrunken country house than one of those cottages depicted in children's books.

A cottage that isn't a cottage, that's how everyone calls their house, that's how they call their own house, not that it matters: They aren't in Perthshire either, so technically speaking there's nothing in their lives that could somehow be linked to Jemma's words on that morning all those years ago, as they stood in front of the window, the sun about to rise, the sky slowly turning blue and pink, getting lighter and lighter. Out of their misery, hope settling between them. It doesn't matter, at the very core there's always been the dream of a life spent at each other's side, they could be anywhere and still be happy and make it work. They had that for a while. Sometimes it seems as if they had nearly fucking everything. But this! A place that likes them as much as they like it, a place that suits them, a place worth living in, a place worth coming back to.

Close to the main door, on the steps that lead to it, next to a pair of blue rain boots and a pair of red ones, lie two cats: Paddington and Waterloo, the first one black and the other calico with a ginger paw. Lazily, they enjoy the good weather while it lasts, nothing exiting to do instead. Beside them is a colourful kite, its string carefully wrapped up, a ball and some umbrellas, one of them broken - the cap is missing and some of the stretchers are bent. Above them, next to the doorbell, a sign that reads "everyone who passes though this door brings happiness. Some by entering, some by leaving" - left by the previous house owners, Fitz has always found it too amusing to take it down and has a good laugh every time he looks at it for truer words have never been spoken. That's not the only sign, there's another one, even more important: a yellowish piece of paper that hangs right under the peephole, held in place by a piece of tape. It's handwritten, his neat handwriting clearly legible, black capital letters, and decorated with flower and animal stickers - mostly sheep, in vogue with the artist's latest obsession. It's a sign that announces to the world that there's no one at home but the door is open. It's a friendly and welcoming sign, embellished so as to make it irresistible, for surely, if the whole place looks warm and ready to make her a part of it, Jemma won't hesitate to come back and join them. It's also a sign that has caused much talking: why advertise that you're out? Fucking because, dick. One time, Evelyn called one of their neighbours, who was passing by to give them some fresh eggs, a buttface for asking - and in that moment, with her hands resting on her hips and her head tilted forwards, she had looked so much like Jemma, it hurt. A sharp pain at his heart.

In the garden, in one corner, is a small greenhouse in which Evelyn plants her strawberries and Fitz grows some vegetables. They've built it together one winter, spending long and snowyafternoons fighting boredom and restlessness, and now it's connected to the pavement around the house with a pebbled path surrounded by grass, flowers and dandelions. Sometimes they pick them up, uncaring that they were weed, and blow them while making a wish and even though their wishes vary in nature, he always feels as if he was transported back in time, to his birthday, that one hot August during those long four thousand seven hundred and twenty-two hours, wishing for Jemma to be safe wherever she was, and for her to come back to him. But it's not always about her, because it's no good to live in the past: it's also about peace and safety, quite and happiness, and Evelyn's desire to join a sheepdog course.

Now, it's no longer a matter months, it's a matter of years and time travel. He tries not to think about it too much because the latter makes his head hurt, but she's been away for five years now and she went back in time to the thirties, probably, for he cannot be sure and never will be, so there's almost a century standing between them. They've really seen it all, to think that they spent such a long time tiptoeing around each other, whispering, deferring and never disagreeing, instead of finding the courage to leap feet first into the unknown. Such anger and jealousy, so many misunderstandings - sometimes it feels as if there hasn't been anything else for the first ten years of their friendship. He used to blame the cosmos, but it's always been them, they were the problem all along, pretending that things hadn't changed, repressing their feelings and never daring to confront the other. Hugging each other, pushing the hurt and the pain down, it never disappeared. Thank God for the mind prison,. If only they had cleared things sooner.

Lying on the ground, in the grass, amidst the flowers, are some chewed-on dog toys: a rope, kongs shaped like ducks and a couple of bones. Their owners aren't too far away, on the other side of the wall, next to Fitz: Gereon, who's running around as if he was chasing ghosts, as Evelyn keeps telling him and who is he to contradict his daughter; And Susie, also known as Tassie, who's lazily lying with her back against the brick wall and a plastic dinosaur next to her, the laziest sheepdog albeit obedient and excited whenever her owner is around, as if ready for the first come-bye or away.

The afternoon is fresh and the air is cooling down, getting colder and colder as the wind gets stronger - it ruffles his hair and causes the leaves on the old ash tree to rustle and rattle, and brings closer the dark clouds that up until that morning were far away on the horizon. This is the beginning of the week of bad weather that's been talked about so much in the past couple of days: the main topic of conversation everywhere - people in a queue or talking to familiar faces in the street. The sources are the same, but the emphasis changed depending on who was the one to deliver the news. It's bad weather typical of that time of the year, they all come prepared, they're all used to it. It's a week of bad weather that's been announced daily by BBC news at half past six and on Sunday by Countryfile, five minutes before the end. The light is already fading and the air smells like rain, the downpour is imminent and while sometimes it feels as if the weather forecast is a work of fiction as much as bus timetables are, it is now impossible to deny that rain and cold is upon them - most roads are going to be blocked and flooded, impossible to cross them by car. They all know it, the only ones stupid enough to try are the tourists convinced, perhaps, that safety regulations and warnings aren't for them or are there as a joke. Most of the time, the result of such ventures are cars stuck in the mud, anger boiling beneath the surface and lost license plates.

In front of him, the countryside that stretches itself towards infinity. It's a sea of green with dark spots that may be sheep or houses - impossible to tell from afar. Cowslips, daisies, vetch, hawthorn, buttercups and plenty of berries at the side of the gravel roads that lead to town, three miles from home. It's incredible, really, that people always think the countryside to lovely and green when it's tinged with red. It's a bloodbath, but there sense of security despite the violence. The open fields and the stillness that impregnates the air provide safety and peace, tranquillity, things are different here - lively, unique, fascinating in their own peculiar way. It's contagious and the idyllic connotations and its calmness are soothing and suit them just fine. It's a place that allows people to get lost, to forget themselves, and to stop looking over ones shoulder: change does not go unnoticed, the smallest difference is caught right away. Here, in some forgotten town in the north of Scotland, life has its own rhythm and moves on relentlessly, time is ticked away by nature itself, undisturbed. And if Jemma is to come back, one day, soon, then they'll notice for sure - something in the air, something out of place, a stranger. They'll know for sure.

The afternoon air engulfs him as he sits there with his eyes closed and his legs stretched forwards, his hands grasping the boarders of the wall tightly - the surface is irregular and coarse under his palm and fingertips, cold under his warm skin and slightly wet. It's cold and Fitz is wrapped up in his old and consumed green anorak, the one with the missing button and the ruined sleeves - the seams are coming off and he keeps forgetting to cut off the loose strings of cotton that brush against his hand and provide a ticklish sensation. And the air smells of rain and flowers, nature and animals' feces. It's a strong smell, typical of the countryside, with harsh undertones and fills his nostrils. It's an inescapable smell, it lingers on clothes and in every room, but it's the smell of home - peculiar and unique, not bad at all.

He takes the shopping list out of his pocket and looks at it, a crumpled piece of paper that at the bottom reads a Shetland Pony - Evelyn's addition, probably, he laughs loudly, it bubbles up at the back of his throat and comes out inhibited and carefree as he shakes his head in disbelief. He writes down gelato and dog food, the name of a book that just recently came out, and writes down a reminder that he has to stop by the post office to the package they've failed to deliver - either his mother or Bobbi and Hunter's latest ploy to spoil their niece, one of those wooden animal statues they send her every time they reach a new place.

It's easy now to remember what it means to have a heartbeat, what it means to live - without worries and without any danger. It's the life he deserves, the life their daughter deserves, to grow away from the past and never touching each other. The past, as the novel says, is a foreign country, they do things differently there; Every step he's taken in the past eight year is a step to get away from it, to run away and never come back. It's something they've dreamed about and talked about, ad nauseam as they say, amidst their plan to save the team with time travel. They should have said no, surely there was a moment they could say it, and somehow they've missed it - the biggest tragedy of all.

Fitz goes by James Ziegler now, his mother's maiden name and the only thing that gives away his Teutonic ancestry; The past comes out and resurfaces inside the house only, enclosed by four walls that keep his secrets. At some point, at the very beginning, he tried to copy Jemma's accent: polished and so in line with the idea developed by A. Burrell at the end of the nineteenth century, that it's the business of educated people to speak so that no-one may be able to tell in what county their childhood was passed. He felt stupid after five minutes, as if he was making fun of her, and now he's pretty sure that he'd stand out even more if he were to talk using the received pronunciation or King's English, as they call it.

His golden wedding band catches the afternoon light as he moves his hand to his pocket and grabs the old walkie-talkie he forgot to put down. It's an old and ruined thing, part of a set he got for his twelfth birthday, his mother gave him with a box with plenty of other stuff from his childhood: some books and lots of Playmobil, which now stands in Evelyn's bedroom and depicts a world in miniature, forever frozen in time. They've spent an entire afternoon dismantling it and putting it back together, changing the batteries, and she's put some stickers on them to cover the scratches - the final product as good as new. They use it whenever loneliness, sadness and longing creep in through the cracks - a day gone wrong, an argument - or on happier occasions such as birthdays and holidays, when all the excitement feels to much and they have to share it. Messages to the stars, it's the only time Evelyn uses English out of her own free will. Messages to the stars, it's their own way to feel closer to Jemma because there isn't much else that they can do anyway. Messages to the stars to kindle hope. A secret frequency, the same he and Jemma used during the first months apart.

Fitz presses the press-to-talk button and waits, repeating the simple motion a couple of times. Indecisiveness, another way to get a little more time and decide what to say. And what does he want to say? That it's beautiful to be here, to have a life, but he's still unhappy. That it's worse at night when he lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling - the bed itself too big and too cold. A sharp pain at his heart. After everything they've been through, he refuses to believe that this is how it ends.

"Fitz to Simmons, I just wanted to tell you that we love you, very much, and we miss you." He pauses to collect his thoughts. "And we hope to see you very soon. Take your time, we'll be here."

This is life not mere survival and time is ticked away relentlessly - seconds turn into minutes, minutes into hours and hours into days - separating him from the past, from Jemma, from SHIELD. He has long stepped back into the world, an odd feeling at first, but now he cannot fail but notice how much they've missed. So many things: seeing the sun rise and set every day, opening the windows to let the fresh air inside, the sound of the rain against the roof, the feeling of the sun against ones skin, laughter and friends and other people, city lights and time spent in town, playing with his daughter, helping her with her homework, going out for a walk. And Jemma! Her presence is central, always there, and it's hard not to think about her, impossible not to miss her.

They can't know where she is and it's been years. Too many, that's for sure. A security nightmare, she could be anywhere, do anything, while they're at home going on with their lives like millions of others, connected to her by a string of hypothesis, a faint conditional that has long started to fade. Distance, a chasm, the cosmos then still wants them to be apart.

Evelyn does G.M.E, Foghlam tro Mheadhan na Gàidhlig, and refuses to speak English most of the time, he wants to tell her. Instead, he lets out a chuckle and looks at Gereon jumping around and barking at some bird who is high in the sky, way out of his reach, unbothered. There's too many things to say and such little time, he feels transported back to the Academy, too shy to speak to her, unable to decide what to say. Something impressive enough for her to think him interesting. Something impressive enough for her to come back. Come back because they've kept the home fires burning.

"I don't know what to say to you, Jemma," he whispers. "So I'm sending this message out there instead. Just hoping that somehow you'll know to come home. Just please come home. Now, soon..."

Without travelling back in time, taking responsibility for their actions, she'll come back. One day. It doesn't matter that there's no information, that they haven't had a real conversation in years for deep down he knows, and quite well indeed, that if there's one thing they've always been good at then it's finding each other again. And once they do, they'll resume without wasting any time on regret or apologies. Once they do, they'll have a life and she'll part of this once - a good one, so different from how they expected it to be.

"Come back to us. Come back to me. Over."

He sighs and gets up, stuffing the walkie-talkie back into his pocket and taking out the car keys instead.

"Let's go," he says to Gereon and Susie as he picks up Susie's plastic dinosaur. "Let's go and get Evelyn, shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

The storm is breaking in all its intensity and violence, motion and dynamicity, nature in all its power. There's thunder, rolling and rumbling, getting louder and louder, and making the whole world tremble. Closer and closer, it interrupts the silence and adds up to the howling wind that blows though the buildings and the trees alike. The trees rattle and rustle, every branch and every sooty bud moving, and they scratch against brick walls or against each other, wood against wood; They are brought to life - always moving. It's a cacophony. It's the sound of nature at its best. It's a belittling sound that seems to mock people and put them back in their place: such immense power among such small and weak animals.

The whole world, this microcosm in the Scottish countryside, appears to be asleep and deserted. The streets are empty, not a single soul to be seen. No cars driving down the old and ruined roads, their tires splashing water onto the pavement and their windscreen wipes moving relentlessly. No couples on their late evening walk, hurrying back home and stopping on the doorstep to share one last kiss and make up their mind: to part ways or spend the night together, both options are equally possible, perfectly balanced a little longer. No groups of friends walking home after a fun night out, their stomachs still full, the night young and tender, an evening of laughter behind them as they share old anecdotes about their schooldays. No one to be seen, but there's light filtering though curtains and window blinds: people enjoying the remains of the day in the safety and comfort of their own homes. There, in a welcoming and dry place, the day lasts a little while longer as people talk or share intimate moments in silence, watching television or reading a book - the activity itself is irrelevant and hardly ever seems to matter as long as it's time spent in each other's company.

Rain everywhere. At the beginning noting but a drizzle, but that was then and this is now. Now, the whole world seems to be made of it, to be made out of water as the rain itself comes down in buckets and hits against every surface. No doubt, every drop is perfectly audible from inside the houses: a constant and rhythmical clack, like the sound of a typewriter. It's a sound to fall asleep to, for who knows, some may associate it with comfort and cosiness. There's puddles starring the street, some of them larger than others, water constantly adding up, their surfaces are broken and dusty and each drop that falls onto them forms concentric circles that expand themselves before they disappear. Rain, plenty of it, and lightning that cuts the night air. Irregular and branched lines against the dark horizon, the light outlines the buildings that look dark against an even darker sky. A thick and heavy mass of black clouds that have gathered throughout the day, the weather forecast slowly coming true. Light before dark succumbs once more, were it not for the dim beam of yellow light cast by her torch, one could thing that darkness is the universe.

One step after the other. The road is slippery and Jemma's rain boots sink into the mud at every step as the houses behind her get smaller and smaller. Through the storm and with her sight completely impair, water running down her skin, wetting her clothes: she looks like an ominous figure, a lonely figure wrapped up in a bright yellow raincoat. Her presence is announced by the small torch she's carrying, a torch that isn't of any help at all but has to and will do. It hardly matters, there's more important things to think and worry about. The road is straight, no houses, sooner or later she'll reach the final destination.

They told her to wait until the storm is over and she doesn't doubt that the comment itself was well meant, she can see the sense in it: to wait until morning breaks and the rain stops is, without a doubt, a matter of safety and comfort; Then again, why not rent her one of their stupid cars if they cared so much? To wait, qhat do they know anyway? Nothing. No one knows about the restlessness and that irresistible urge that has taken over her ever since she stepped onto the platform at Edinburgh Waverley. There is no time, it's a matter of extreme urgency and importance and ad they given her one of their cars, she'd be home by now - safe, dry and no longer waiting.

Jemma brushes a strain of hair off her forehead and feels anger rising inside her - that condescending and mocking tone used by staff. That that same tone that seemed to increase at every syllable. Anger, it boils inside her, overwhelming her. She's angry at the car rental service. Angry at Fitz for having moved to the middle of nowhere - an idiot, making an even more idiotic decision. She's also angry at herself for having left Fitz and Evelyn all those years ago - four not that she's counting - and not having tried to go back to the moment of their parting. To start from there and pretend that the future had not happened, pretend that she never left at all. She kicks a pebble with all the force she can gather but the sudden movement throws her off balance and she slips, landing on the ground, amidst all the mud, her hands sticky and her trousers dirty.

"Fuck you!" She yells. "Fuck you."

She sobs, a loud sob that shakes her whole body, and starts to cry. Hot tears roll down her cheeks. Sadness and anger, an overwhelming mix of emotions.

"I just want to be home," she whines.

Home: peace and quiet.

Home: Fitz and Evelyn.

Home: life resuming at last.

They are all in the same timeline and year, in the present, but it feels, to quote one of Fitz's most ridiculous ideas, as if the cosmos still wants them to be apart. For here she is, sitting in the mud, crying, when she could be there with them - dry clothes, aware that the worst is behind them and that the past is just the past. In front of them a new life and the most extraordinary future away from S.H.I.E.L.D. A whole new life! The promise made all those years ago, teary eyed and writing sorrow on the bosom of the earth once more, coming true at last. To simply resume and lean back into a life that has always been unabridged and the more unforgotten.

Jemma gets up and wipes her hands on her yellow raincoat, leaving dark streaks of earth on the bright and colourful plastic material. She feels the ice-cold water run down her spine and shivers, pulls the hood up again and ties its strings tightly under her chin, and walks on. Step after step, on the gravel road, carefully and with a hint of hesitance. Up the hill on the meandering path, light nowhere to be seen. Somewhere, three miles they said but she cannot be sure, Fitz's house. She can't possibly miss it, according to small talk, though in this weather there could be a unicorn walking beside her and she wouldn't notice it at all - a compelling reply, she should have used it to get them to lend her a bloody car. Too late.

Fitz. He changed his name, which isn't surprising. Quite predictable, really, and it's hilarious that after crossing the galaxy twice, finding the way off an alien planet, inventing time travel, she failed to consider the option of Fitz changing his surname. Panic, she remembers it well, that utter fear of having done something that ultimately erased his existence. Then the reassuring news that there was a James Ziegler born 19 August 1987 with a daughter named Evelyn. At the time, a laugh seemed called for and she had managed it, relief washing over her. To see him and their daughter again, still feels like a dream - something so long longed for, so long imagined. Now, she's getting them back. The only thing that matters.

The walk is endless and a part of Jemma doesn't want it to end. It's a limbo and here, there are no certainties and no anger, many a thousand possibilities all of which possible but only one of them bound to become real. Every future has a chance to exist, but the consequences of her actions loom on the horizon, weight down on her and hang like a sword above her head. Here, now, she's safe and there are no impending confrontations, no apologies and no explanations. She's missed a lot, what if it's too much? Here and now people aren't complicated and feelings are unchanged. Life itself is frozen, to those idyllic and perfect years, before their forced parting and the abandonment. So much loss and too many sacrifices, their simple lives turned into a tragedy.

There's a red entrance gate and a ruined brick wall. A tree, probably an ash tree but she cannot be sure now or in daylight, for she always hated botany, and a small greenhouse in one corner. It's simple and doesn't look like a cottage at all, more like one of her grandparent's houses, but she can see the appeal of it. It's his, it's home, it's far away from anything that can remind him of his past. A simple and normal life, away from danger.

Jemma lingers on the doorstep, filled with indecisiveness and unsure what to do. Her hand is half raised, ready to grasp for the metal door knocker. There's light shining through the window, filtered through the curtains, welcoming, though it may be on because they forgot to switch it off. It's too late to ring, suppose she wakes them all? Too loud, too much, the last option. The metal door knocker is cold in her palm. She knocks twice and waits.

The sound of steps coming to the door and the doorknob slowly turning. Time, infinitesimally small, lasting a lifetime as seconds stretch themselves to infinity. It doesn't seem to pass, freezing them there, everything stands still, even the rain seems to stop - distant and forgotten, no longer of interest. Inch by inch the door opens, without a sound, revealing Fitz with his sleepy eyes and a confused look on his face.

"Jemma?"

It's all too much. He looks older, then again they both are, but he's there - flesh and bones. Real. She steps forward and kisses him, her lips pressed on his, gently, softly, with yearning. It takes a moment, instinct kicking in, and then she feels his tongue on her lips. Tentative and languid movements as they get reacquainted with familiar feelings. Tongues touching, moist and slippery muscle, his hands cupping her cheek.

"It's over," she whispers as they part. "It's over. I'm here."

"Oh, Jemma," he replies. His voice is slow and broken, painted with disbelief and happiness, excitement, as the reality of things slowly starts to settle between them. "We've missed you so much."

"It's alright. It's alright," she repeats with slightly more emphasis. "And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. For everything."

"Don't be, There's nothing to apologize for and there's nothing to forgive. Do you have any luggage?"

"I do not. Shoes off?"

"Yes, please. You can leave your boots next to ours."

She does as she's told and carefully slips out of her shoes. Her rain boots are dirtier than theirs, completely covered in mud, but standing next to each other they look like a complete picture - three pairs of rain boots next to the door, a strange sense of foreshadowing. It starts now, she thinks, they're together again. They can resume. Barefoot she steps inside, the floor cold under her feet, her feet the only dry thing, but there's droplets of water running down her coat and hair, and they form a puddle at her feet.

"I'm sorry," she says staring at the water as she tries to find a handkerchief in her pockets so as to wipe it away. "I'm making a mess of this place."

"Jemma-"

She doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. Her thoughts are going staccato and panic is raising again. There she is not fitting in. She has imagined this moment plenty of times and somehow it doesn't live up, it's a tricky and difficult matter and there's worries of a different kind. Suppose she's been away for too long? And yet there they are, standing in front of each other, proof that they've always and will always find each other, that they belong at each other's side: it's a well-known and unexpected feeling. The two of them side by side: right and slightly inevitable.

"Jemma. Jemma, look at me."

His hands cup her cheeks again, his thumbs gently caress her skin, and she leans into the contact - the first real contact in years. She's feels touch starved and wants to beg for more, her entire body screaming. To be held a little while longer, stand there and hold each other after such a long time, while the clock in the kitchen ticks the time away.

"It's alright," he tells her. There's tears in his eyes now, eyes that appear bluer than they are. The sentence itself sounds like a reminder for the two of them. "It's alright."

"Evelyn?" she asks urgently.

"Fast asleep in her room. She went to bed rather late because Fridays are for gelato and telly."

"Oh. What did you watch?" She stops, "I-"

"Horrible Histories. She's upstairs in her bedroom, first room on the left."

"I don't want to wake her, but I want to see her." She sniffles.

"Don't worry, she sleeps like a rock."

"So that didn't change?"

Fitz shakes his head. "No, that didn't. We're still the same, just as you left us, but we two dogs now: Gereon and Susie. Susie also answers to Tassie."

"Tassie?"

"It's a very long story, you should ask Evelyn how that happened."

"I will. And the cats," she says, pointing at the sofa.

"Yeah, those too. Waterloo and Paddington."

"Did you go to London?"

He laughs. "No, well, Paddington is named after the bear, obviously, and the bear is named after a train station. If you waited another year, you'd have found a pony. Maybe. Probably."

"A pony?" She chuckles.

"She wants a Shetland one and you've got to admit that they are rather nice. Though she also wants a flock of sheep so..." Fitz shrugs.

"Quite the zoo you've got here." Jemma pauses. "It sounds like a farm. You're spoiling her."

He smirks. "Maybe a little bit and not as much as Hunter and Bobbi. You weren't here, but our daughter does make the most compelling arguments."

"She's quite the orator, huh?"

"Yeah, she most definitely is. But she always does her fair share of work and never complains even if she's not in the mood." He stops and looks at her. "Are you hungry?"

"No, thank you. I ate something in Edinburgh, pies. They were scrumptious."

"South Bridge?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"Cup of tea?"

"Later, perhaps. I'd love to shower."

"You can bathe if you want to."

"Only if you join me." She smirks and kisses him on the cheek.

"How to say no... Are you trying to seduce me? Because you look irresistible covered in mud."

She raises an eyebrow and laughs. It feels good, a carefree and liberating sound that bubbles up at the back of her throat. They've got time. They've got forever. It's all good and they're resuming, she'd love to do everything at once.

"Is it working?"

"Yes."

"Then we should definitely do something about it, but I want to see Evelyn first."

She follows him up the old and consumed wooden staircase. Its steps are carved by time and luggage, scratches where the wood is lighter than everywhere else, and they creak under their weight.

"Nice place," she tells him. "It's lovely. I like it."

"It's home. I know it isn't a cottage somewhere in Perthshire, but it was much more convenient and we've got so much space inside and around the house. Enough for all of us."

"It doesn't matter, Fitz. I don't care about the cottage or Perthshire, as long as I'm with you and Evelyn it's fine. We could live on the bloody moon for all I care."

"I wouldn't."

"Oh-"

"I'm tired of space, I've had enough of it." He pauses. "Here we are."

Carefully he opens the ajar door and reveals their daughter's room. Green walls and posters hanging on the walls. It's a mess of books and clothes, her desk completely covered with sheets of paper and pencils. Small wooden animal statuettes are lined up on the windowsill and on one of the shelves some Playmobil - a microcosm, frozen in time. One dog curled up at her feet and the other lying next to the door, the latter looks up and stares at her and Fitz before closing his eyes again - such a late night visitor completely uninteresting.

Evelyn so grown up. How old is she now? Eight, almost nine. Good God, she thinks, what has she done. The years of absence stare her in the face as she's faced with the most interesting dilemma - to wake her up or let her sleep. In the end, she decides for the latter: too scared of the consequences, a couple more hours to think about what she'll say to her. Jemma walks in, quietly, tiptoeing, and smiles as she presses a kiss on Evelyn's forehead and then fixes her covers.

"Good night, my darling," she whispers and looks at her one last time, before leaving the room.

"She's so grown up," she tells Fitz. "And looks exactly like you, with her blonde curls."

"Oh, Jemma. Come here." He holds her close. "She's got your temper, you know? She even calls people buttheads."

"Why does she call people that?"

"Because they were making comments about our sign."

"Your sign?"

"Yeah, the one we hang up when we're out. It was for you, asking you to just come in if we were out. She put some very nice stickers on it, I'm gonna show you later or tomorrow." He stops. "I know it's been a long time and I know that this isn't easy, but you've got to know that we waited and waited. We knew that you'd come back, one day. And now you're here, it still doesn't feel real, but it is. And I'm not saying that it won't take time, we've been apart for so long, but there's no anger an no resentment. It'll be alright."

She wipes her tears away and nods. "So, where's the bathroom?"

Down the corridor and into the bathroom, the door closing behind them. She washes her hand, getting rid of the mud, looking at the dark water run down the pipe, leaving brown streaks behind. Her reflection in the mirror is that of a stranger, tired and exhausted, filled with sorrow and excitement, dark circles under her eyes.

"If you get out of those clothes, I'll put them though the wash."

The sound of running water fills the room and steam starts to lift itself from the flat water surface, filling the air and slightly fogging the mirror. Outside, the rain is still falling and the wind howling, the window blinds clatter for a couple of seconds.

Fitz steps closer.

"I love you," he whispers in her ear. "I love you."

"I love you too," she replies with more emphasis, matter-of-factly- as if she was the one to say it first.

Tentatively, his hands slight shaking, he starts to undress her with care - his breath warm against her skin. There's laughter, on both sides, as he tries to get her trousers off, but the wet material is all but glued to her skin and refuses to come off.

"Let me," she tells him.

"I'm going to get you some clean clothes. I'll be back in a minute."

She nods and steps into the bathtub. The water is warm enough and she dives until she's under water and closes her eyes. No noise can be heard, she feels like she's floating, out of time and space, as she exhales though her nose - bubbles raising to surface. It feels good, it feels relaxing, and all her tension is slowly leaving her. There's three rubber ducks staring her from the windowsill and she smiles.

"There you go," says Fitz as he opens the door and locks it behind him. In his arms a pair of striped pyjama trousers, one of his old t-shirts and a grey woollen jumper. "It's the best I could find."

"Thank you, Fitz." She pauses. "Now strip."

"As you wish."

As the sit in the tub, the water still hot, one words starts to settle between them- Home. To have been away for so long - a dream, a nightmare. Why be apart when they could have this? A life together, a perfect balance between time together, privacy, work and intimacy. It took them years, do they remember? But this! To start again and resume, fall back into a well-known routine.

"Do you think she'll be angry?" she asks. "I left for so many years without as much as a word."

"I think... I think she'll be happy to see you again."

Not that anger and happiness can't coexist, they should know it better than anyone. Whatever her daughter decides to do, however she decides to react, Jemma hopes that she won't follow in her parents' footsteps: God knows if she and Fitz did it all wrong.

"I can tell you this, Jemma. We, well, she used to send you message using an old walkie-talkie. Messages to the stars, to kindle hope, you were, are, her confidant. She talks quite a lot with you, keeping you up to date. In English."

"In English?"

"She does G.M.E now and refuses to speak English unless, of course, she's talking to you."

"Didn't know you were fluent in Scottish Gaelic."

"I'm not. Enough to understand her, though there is a lot of pointing at things and rephrasing because she refuses to code-switch."

"So you reply in English and she's okay with that?"

He nods. "It works. It's surprising really, the way her mind works. And it's completely useless to ask her what's the criterion behind it all; Trust me, I've tried."

"Do you think I should have woken her up?"

"Do you think you should have woken her up?"

"I honestly don't know anymore. I'm scared, Fitz. I thought it would be so easy to step back into the world and start from we left off, but now I'm here and I honestly don't know. It's been a long time, suppose it's been too long? I just... I left!"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. needed you."

"You needed me! Evelyn needed me. And all these years, I'll never get them back. We saved the world so many times, at what cost. We should have said no. We should have left. We shouldn't have joined S.H.I.E.L.D, leave the job to someone else. Who cares." She pauses. "Not only that, we're really cursed or something."

"Oh, I said that one time!"

"First there's a rail replacement service, then they wouldn't let me rent a car. What?"

"You're one of those people!"

"Those?"

"Those who want to rent a car, tourists. Idiots, all of them." He laughs, his entire body shaking, and snorts. "You don't drive while it rains. Too much mud, the streets are a disaster. Honestly, I cannot believe I'm married to you."

She splashes some water. "Shut up, Fitz!"

"What? It's true! You have no idea how many people lose their license plates or get stuck in the mud. This... The weather tonight is nothing, sometimes the whole place floods and then the streets look like rivers. You'll see soon enough."

"I'm sure I will." She raises an eyebrow and teasingly goes on and says, "Because it's all over. I'm here. We can resume."

"At last," he replies.

As the water starts to turn cold, they step out of the tub and let it empty as they dry themselves and get back in their clothes. She studies Fitz's movements as he cleans the bathtub of any residue of mud, his carefulness and mathematical precision. It looks domestic and he looks irresistible, to think that he used to be a slob back at the Academy.

"What?" he asks.

"You look hot, dashing."

"Do I, now?"

She nods and steps forward and kisses him. Together, they stumble toward his bedroom. Their bedroom. Fumbling hands and hungry mouths, impossible to tell who is the most eager one. They've always been good at this, they understand it, the rest is confusing and a mess, but they've got to start somewhere. They begin in the corridor and continue as the bedroom door silently closes behind them.

Later, as they're yet again back in their clothes, she moves closer to him. Skin resting on skin, her hand in his. Wool against cotton. They touch each other with care and no rush at all, each movement gentle and never ending, until they both find a comfortable position and Jemma's head is buried in the crook of his neck and is arms are around her, holding her close. Comfort, reassurance, protection, love.

"Hold me," she whispers. Her voice falters and she breathes in his scent - fresh and minty. He smells like home and it's a clean smell, so very like him. "And never let me go."

"I have no intention of letting you go. Never again."

She sobs. "Good."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are included in the note at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

By the time the first shy sunbeams shine through the clouds, the rain has long stopped falling. Now that it's morning, all that remains is the dark sky and the wind that blows and howls with an unchanged strength and intensity causing the branches of the ancient ash tree to rustle and rattle and rhythmically tap against the window - a sound so similar to the one made by raindrops hitting the cold glass surface. Far away, in the distance, closer to the sea than to the village, thunder is rolling and rumbling: The noise echoes through the air, getting closer and closer, slowly fading, and foreshadows the continuation of the previous night's storm thus preventing people from being fooled by those pallid rays of sunlight. The sunshine is there, but there won't be a clear blue sky or sunny and warm spring days for another couple of days, proving the weather forecast to be entirely correct.

Deep and low noises made my nature. Powerful noises that seem to make the whole world tremble. Noises that always seem to scare Susie, who seeks comfort by lying under chairs and tables with her plastic dinosaur to keep her company. Noises that leave Gereon, Paddington and Waterloo completely unbothered and unaffected as they lazily go on with their days, hardly giving away any reaction to the bad weather. Those sounds are also similar to the ones made by hungry monsters in children's books, those monsters that wander through forests and woods in look for a friend and meet plenty of wildlife during their journeys. The big ones who are covered in brown fur that makes them look like muddy clouds, who make the ground tremble as they walk with a sheepish smile on their face that reveals several missing teeth. Watercolour pictures, faded by time and printed on pages that are slowly turning yellow, that take up most of the pages inside the books from her early childhood that are now sitting on one of the shelves, behind sets of Playmobil, untouched and gathering dust.

Another noise, indicator of home as much as the ones coming from outside: heavy steps on the wooden floor and voices. Whispers, even though they are too loud to be considered such as if the two interlocutors are putting too much effort in such a simple task - too excited and too eager to fulfil their aim. A Scottish accent and an English one: The former isn't as hard and strong as people always describe it, the very opposite, it now stands out for its lightness - no rolled r-s the brogue hardly there; The latter is polished, refined, clear and neat, it lacks any sort of regional influence, like the pronunciation of the people working on telly or for the BBC. Straight out the past and familiar both of them, in between wake and dream it's impossible whether the humorous conversation which is taking place behind the bedroom door is real or merely a cruel trick of a sleepy mind influenced by longing.

There is no sunshine and no light filters through the closed white curtains, no intricate patterns of golden sunlight on the light blue walls. In absence of daylight, the semidarkness is diminished by a small lamp placed on the windowsill: A birthday present from a relative. It's shaped like a lantern, like something straight-out a Sally Lockhart novel, something to take with when going on an adventure. The light inside resembles a tea candle, like the ones put in tea warmers on Sunday afternoons when people sit down to take their afternoon tea, treating themselves with scones and marmalade and carrying on a Cornish and Devonian tradition - whether to put the clotted cream or the jam first is a decision left to each diner. It's a dim and reassuring light that keeps away both monsters and bad dreams. It's a soft, warm and welcoming light that through the years has been the equivalent of keeping the window open: A silent and easily overlookable plea to come home, a bright light to lead the way, because it's never too late to come back and resume.

"Madainn mhath, Tassie," says Evelyn as she stretches her hand out to reach for the Bobtail curled at her side. The fur is warm and soft under her fingers and her touch is light and gentle, careful, but Susie is startled nonetheless and jumps down the bed with one quick swift movement.

She turns to the side, the whole bed rocking because of the sudden movement, and reaches for her glasses on the bedside table. The whole world back in focus: Susie is sniffling Gereon's ear, trying to wake him up - two dark outlines against the penumbra of the room and the light that filters though the ajar door.

"Madainn mhath, Gereon," she adds. "Come here!"

The old Scottish Collie looks at her for a couple of moments and lazily wiggles his tail against the floor, the sound a series of tacks.

"Come here," she repeats. "Good boy."

Gereon slowly gets up and reaches her, nudging her arm with his wet snoot so as to request some attention and affection. After a while he turns around and follows Susie out of the door: Both of them wiggle their tail and sniff the air, trot down the corridor as the sound of their paws gets fainter and fainter until it becomes inaudible. Alone in her room, with the Paddington alarm clock ticking the time away, she looks at the door one more time and then pulls the covers on her head - her toes are exposed and she wiggles them, only to start giggling soon after.

Saturday, nine o'clock, it's a pity that her father won't have the chance to wake her. Saturdays are for sleeping late and lazy morning. For breakfasts together with the table nicely set and the fine china - a wedding present from her mother's parents, the story is one of the funniest she's ever heard and her father shares it every time the fancy plates are taken out of the cupboard. Sometimes, when it's summer, there's flowers too - sunflowers, if she gets any say in it - disorderly tucked into a glass with sheep on it at the centre of their kitchen table. Au naturel.

Evelyn groans, the idea of having to go downstairs to help laying the table is less than appealing. Why not stay in bed and wait? Surely her father will come soon and tell her to get up because breakfast is ready. He'll say it's almost ten even though every other clock in the house says differently, that peculiar and hilarious way of bending the truth so as to have her get up sooner. Then again, Gereon and Susie are already downstairs and it's her turn to let them out into the garden, part of the agreement when they got Susie, so she pushes the covers away with one swift movement and gets up, dangling her legs out of the bed before grabbing a jumper and standing up.

The floor is cold under her feet and the corridor empty and quiet, nothing there to help her decide whether or not the voices heard in the morning were real or a product of her imagination. On the walls, watching over her, some framed photos: Mostly landscapes, but some depict her parents when they were younger. There they are, looking into the camera, smiling - incredibly young, innocent and with less sadness in their eyes. Her father is barely recognizable.

Down the staircase, her hand holding the handrail tightly, and into the kitchen. The lights are switched on, artificial and cold, they don't make the room look welcoming at all. Still, the air smells of warm toast, butter and coffee. The smell of home, it creates quite the contrast between two extremes. And there is her dad, standing in front of the fridge, Waterloo and Paddington next to him, rubbing themselves against his ankles, presumably begging for more food as they always do, a small and potentially infinite path shaped like an eight.

"Madainn mhath, dad," she says as she enters the room, heading to the kitchen door and quickly followed by Gereon and Susie. Cold air hits her cheeks as she opens the door, air that smells of mud and rain, typical of the countryside where such a distinct and poignant smell isn't covered by the smell of exhausting gas.

"Ciamar a tha thu?"

"I'm fine, thank you. And you?"

"Tha mi gu math."

"Are you hungry?" he asks as he switches the kettle on, the button going into place with a loud and dry clack.

"Tha."

"Evelyn?"

She looks up questioningly. Fitz is still holding the teabag which now hangs in the air, beside his leg, and oscillates ever so slightly. Waterloo sniffs at it and raises his paw to play just as her father lifts it up again and places it on the counter. His moth opens and closes twice and he exhales sharply, looking away.

"English, please," he says at last.

"Chan eil Beurla mhath agam," replies Evelyn matter-of-factly.

"Chan eil Gàidhlig agam, so what do we want to do about it?" He pauses, turning around to take a teaspoon out of the drawer. "And your English is fine, stop looking for excuses."

Evelyn giggles and looks away. Outside, Gereon and Susie seem to be having the time of their lives, running around through the mud and playing with each other. Then Gereon goes to the ash tree and pees while Susie attentively looks at him as he raises his leg before sniffing his butt.

"Do you need help?" she asks her dad.

"Ah, English!" Fitz jokes. He snorts, a nasal sound, and starts to laugh. "Lite le bainne? Mòran gràinean bracaist?"

"Biadh-maidne," she corrects him.

"I'm pretty sure that bracaist is a real world, Evelyn, you're just making fun of me. Who'd have thought, my own daughter." He gasps, pretending to be shocked at such a sudden and unexpected realisation. "Breakfast. Do you want some of my porridge?"

"Yuk." 

Evelyn's face contorts into a grimace of disgust as she watches her father prepare his breakfast - mathematically precise movements as he pours the oatmeal into the pot and adds water to it, beginning to stir as the cooker starts to warm. The same carefulness he puts into his work, an extraordinary thing, really, as if he were in the garage slash lab tinkering with his tools. It's a funny thing, enhanced by the fact that the collar of his pyjama is neatly tucked over his jumper's neckline, which makes him look as if he's at work or about to leave for it.

"Thalla 's ionnsaich dha do sheanmhair lit' a dhèanamh, chan eil dad cho fallain ri lite, gu h-àiridh lite tradaiseanta na h-Alba. Tha sinn a' cleachdadh min-choirce, uisge is salann airson lite tradiseanta," she says, trying her best to copy his voice as she places her hands on her hips, imitating his usual posture. The only thing missing, she thinks as they stand there next to each other, is a cardigan. "Tha an salann riatanach airson lite a tha blasta. Tha e gu math cumanta a bhith ag ithe lite le bainne, no uachdar air uairibh."

"Is that... Is that supposed to be me?"

"Seadh." She shrugs.

Fitz laughs, it's a warm sound, the best in the world. Lighthearted and carefree, and ever so precious. "That's not- that's not even how I sound. And I'd never be able to string together so many sentences."

She goes on, her voice matter-of-factly when she says, "Tha cuid ag ràdh nach bu chòir a bhith bainne air an lite fhèin anns a' bhobhla, ach gum bu chòir bainne a bhith anns a' chupan ri thaobh, airson sgobag lite a thumadh, a rèir beul-aithris."

"They do what now?" He asks confused.

"They say that you shouldn't put milk into your porridge, but keep it in a cup next to the bowl so as to dip it inside."

"Yeah, I think I'm going to pass that."

Evelyn sticks her tongue out and lets Gereon and Suzie back inside, leaving a trail of dirty paws on the tiled floor which she wipes away with the old and ruined rag.

"So, what do you want to eat?" asks her father.

"Bu toil leam glainne bainne." She pauses. "No, ehm, sugh orainds. No, both."

"Are you sure you don't want some porridge? You've already got the milk, might as well dip it inside."

"Uh-hu." She pouts and shakes her head. "Bu toil leam briosgaidean teòclaid is coirce, ler toil."

"Briosgaidean teòclaid is coirce it is then."

Fitz finishes to lay the table and turns off the cooker, the sound of the spoon against the pot as he puts the porridge in his breakfast bowl fills the room.

"Paipear-naidheachd anns a' Bheurla!"

"Evelyn-"

"I can go and get it."

"No, I need you to listen to me for just one moment." His voice is harsh and dry, syllables coming out in a series of staccatos. The kettle interrupts him. "Listen, I've got... I know it's late, but you've got to understand- we really made a mistake yesterday..."

"Dè tha dol?" she asks, cutting him off. The most unexpected and nonsensical of sentences, he's hardly making any sense.

"An-de. Yesterday, it was late..."

"Hello, darling."

Her heart skips a beat and then starts to race as disbelief washes over her. If this is some sort of cosmic joke or just another one of those dreams that make her wake up with tears in her eyes and trembling lips, she wants it to end now. Nervous, lacking the easiness and straight-forwardness she remembers, her mother is standing at the kitchen door with a newspaper in her hand. Stepping into family life, ready to resume, the picture complete at last. How many times did she think, nay dream, about this moment? Many a thousand, and yet reality, albeit real, doesn't seem to measure up. It's flawed and intricate, difficult, the transition from one situation to the other not as smooth as imagined.

"Chan eil mi a' tuigsinn," she whispers.

Her thoughts are going staccato, slipping away from her, and words are not enough to catch up with them and express herself. Too many feelings, most of the contradictory, and no idea from where to start. But her mother stands there in her father's clothes, the pyjama trousers folded twice around her ankles and the jumper, Shetland made just as Fitz likes them.

"Halò." She pauses. Hesitance takes over her and mixes with fear, she doesn't dare to go on and somehow ruin this, expose the truth and her feelings. Suppose her mother is going to leave again? Suppose this is a dream? Suppose that her mother is nothing but an ominous figure bringing bad news? "Madainn- Madainn mhath."

All she can think about is her mother leaving on a sunny summer morning, at the break of dawn, and her and her father crying. She remembers yelling after her mother to come back and spending nights complaining to her father that she wanted her mother back with them and her father equally heartbroken hardly knowing how to calm her. This doesn't make any sense. Evelyn looks up and for the first time in years her father looks completely happy and at peace, no longer restless. No disbelief as if Jemma is about to join them for breakfast, for lunch, for their Saturday lark, a week and forever. Not a single doubt, ready to resume.

"Tro mheadhan na Beurla seach tro mheadhan na Gàidhlig." he mouths.

She ignores him, all she wants to do is go back to a couple of minutes before, their lives the same as always. Joking. There are tons of ways to better formulate that sentence and she wants to list them all, secretly appreciating his efforts, the ways he plays with language to make himself understood. No Gaelic, he doesn't understand anything. If there's ever been a time for Gaelic, this is it! The only way to make sense of her thoughts and properly express herself, a way to make herself distinct from all of this, from them. And part of her, the angry and irrational part, saying it's also the way to hold her mother's absence against her. The quickest way, each foreign syllable having an alienating effect.

Her father's hand on her shoulder, a light and reassuring grip. The gentle squeeze makes her furious, he an active partecipant in this: They've kept it from her, despite his promise all those years ago, contra mundum, the two of them. An-de, the word is played over and over again until it starts to sound funny and loses its meaning. Why not wake her? Why not tell her first thing in the morning? Why not tell her as soon as she stepped into the kitchen? She had every right to know about such a pleasant surprise.

"Cum do laimhan leat fhèinsa!" she all but yells, her voice about to become squeaky. There's tears in her eyes now, the whole world blurred and watery, and everyone is looking at her. The whole scene feels frozen, out of time and space, it's all up to her - no one else dares to speak a word. They look guilty, the same look one of the dogs has when it gets caught stealing food from the table. It seems predictable, all of it, but it isn't even she is unable to make up her mind and decide what to do.

"Evelyn!" Fitz's voice is angered as he reproaches her harshly, but Evelyn ignores him and keeps staring at her mother. There she is, nervously fidgeting with her hands and standing still on the same spot at the kitchen's entrance. The instinct to run to her and hug her is strong, but the anger and the annoyance are there too - conflicting emotions at war with each other.

All she can think of saying is fàg mi leam fhèin. She wants to yell it and then step into the garden, slamming the door behind her, sit on the wooden bench and look at the horizon. Away from them, in peace, and collecting her thoughts. It's a tricky situation and the words are on the tip of her tongue, ready to come out in a grammatical fashion, but she doesn't have the strength to say them out. Unfair and shocking, she also feels like she just swallowed a box of fireworks. To think that she always defended her mother from those assumption that insinuated that she had left them for good! Buttheads, all of them, they didn't know anything or her parents - best friends in the world ever since they moved to the States to attend the Academy (though, really, she doesn't understand the appeal. She'd never move across the pond, not even for sheep and a Shetland pony).

"Tha mi duilich," she tells Fitz and then steps forwards with hesitant steps.

She all but runs, her steps heavy on the tiled floor, and then hugs her mother who picks her up with some difficulty.

"Goodness, you've grown," whispers Jemma.

"I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, darling."

"Tha mi duilich," she says again, breathing in her mother's scent - it's fresh and minty like her father's. The smell of family and home and hope.

Apologies on all sides, whispered and murmured until it feels as if there are no apologies left in the universe.

"Are you here to stay?" she asks.

"Yeah, I am. I really am, it's over. I'm back. If you want me here that is."

"Of course we want you here, don't we?"

Evelyn nods as her father kisses her mother - a quick and light peck on her mother's lips. Reunited at last, they both look radiant.

"Do you know what granny always says?"

"No, what does she say?"

"That you should never put down your saucer while drinking tea."

Jemma laughs at the spot on impression of her mother.

"Do you want to know what the other granny always says?"

"Yeah, I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

"She says... She always says that thig math à mulad," she explains.

"Good comes from sadness," Fitz cuts her off.

"That's what your dad kept telling me when we were young. I'm starting to think he's right?"

"Am I?"

"Well, I'm here and you're here."

"I wasn't done yet!" Complains Evelyn as Gereon and Susie reach them, nudging them with their wet snoots and begging them for some attention. "'s thig sonas à suaimhneas."

"And contentment from rest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Madainn mhath: good morning.  
\- Ciamar a tha thu: how are you.  
\- Tha mi gu math: I'm fine.  
\- Tha: yes (please note that tha and seadh, along with their negative counterparts no and chan eil, are used with questions starting with a bheil).  
\- Chan eil Beurla mhath agam: I can't speak English well.  
\- Chan eil Gàidhlig agam: I can't speak Gaelic.  
\- Lite le bainne? Mòran gràinean bracaist?: Porridge with milk? Cereals?  
\- Biadh-maidne: breakfast.  
\- Bracaist: breakfast.  
\- Thalla 's ionnsaich dha do sheanmhair lit' a dhèanamh, chan eil dad cho fallain ri lite, gu h-àiridh lite tradaiseanta na h-Alba. Tha sinn a' cleachdadh min-choirce, uisge is salann airson lite tradiseanta: go away and teach your grandma how to suck eggs. There's nothing as healthy as porridge, especially traditional Scottish one. For the traditional recipe we use oatmeal, water and salt.  
\- Tha an salann riatanach airson lite a tha blasta. Tha e gu math cumanta a bhith ag ithe lite le bainne, no uachdar air uairibh: Salt is essential for a tasty porridge. It's quite common to eat it with milk and sometimes cream.  
\- Seadh: yes.  
\- Bu toil leam glainne bainne: I'd like a glass of milk.  
\- Sugh orainds: orange juice.  
\- Bu toil leam briosgaidean teòclaid is coirce, ler toil: I'd like chocolate oatmeal biscuits, please.  
\- Paipear-naidheachd anns a' Bheurla: English newspaper.  
\- Dè tha dol: What's going on  
\- Chan eil mi a' tuigsinn: I don't understand.  
\- Tro mheadhan na Beurla seach tro mheadhan na Gàidhlig: in English, not Gaelic.  
\- Cum do laimhan leat fhèinsa: don't touch me.  
\- Fàg mi leam fhèin: leave me alone.  
\- Tha mi duilich: I'm sorry.  
\- thig math à mulad 's thig sonas à suaimhneas: good comes from sorrow and contentment from rest.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Countryfile is a television programme which airs weekly on BBC One and reports on rural, agricultural, and environmental issues in the UK.  
\- Foghlam tro Mheadhan na Gàidhlig: a form of education in Scotland that allows pupils to be taught primarily through the medium of Scottish Gaelic, with English being taught as the secondary language (a' toirt chothroman do chlann foghlam anns na sgoiltean fhaiginn tro mheadhan na Gàidhlig seach tro mheadhan na Beurla).  
\- Received Pronunciation (RP), commonly called BBC English is an accent of Standard English in the United Kingdom and is defined as the standard accent of English as spoken in the south of England, although it can be heard from native speakers throughout England and Wales and operates as a prestige norm. A survey (2007) found that residents of Scotland and Northern Ireland tend to dislike RP.  
\- For the love of God, if they tell you not to use your car when it rains, don't use your car.


End file.
